


Into the Terrorvortex of Kor-Virliath

by OAC_QI



Category: Gloryhammer (Band)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Fantasy, Not Canon Compliant, Science Fiction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-17
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-07 15:02:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21459976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OAC_QI/pseuds/OAC_QI
Summary: Angus McFife arrives from the future into a terrible past. But he is not the only one. Zargothrax is on his way to conquering the realm of Caledonia, for inscrutable purposes beyond mere conquest, and Angus is the only one between him and total domination.Or is he?
Comments: 14
Kudos: 19





	1. The Siege of Dunkeld

**Author's Note:**

> Surprise! You thought Iona's Resolve was the only thing from me in this archive? Think again! The purpose of this story is to hopefully flesh out LBTGT into a proper story, introduce a few ideas of my own into it, and tie it back into Space 1992 somehow. We'll see, won't we? Comments are always welcome!

Angus McFife hurtled through the wormhole.

The maelstrom was an assault on the eyes, reds shot through with a cacophony of purples and burnt oranges dominated the spectrum; and the ears fared little better. Lightnings thundered and clouds crackled all around; great winds reeking of ozone buffeted him this way and that. It was only his deathgrip on the Hammer that kept him sane and alive.

So it was that he descended into a blackened sky, a powerful meteorite of silvered light exploding with fury over pale plains of whitened earth and dark stone. A halo of ice from his rapid ascent through the Martian atmosphere left his body in a blaze of fleeting glory—dissipating into a hostile sky. 

Just as Angus managed to get a grip on sanity, reality collided with him at the speed of an enraged dragon.

The meteorite slammed into the ground, gouging a massive furrow through the earth, throwing up a cloud that glowed in the air. As it disappeared there was revealed a great crater nearly a hundred meters in perfect diameter and almost half that deep, a ravine dug by his passage stretching a kilometer back. And at its center lay the prince of Fife, his noble armor cracked and shattered from the colossal impact.

He coughed as dust swirled around, and climbed to his feet. The Hammer lent itself easily as a stave a hobbled elder may use. Its light, caught from a star entwined into a mystical crystal set inside its mighty steel head, illuminated the crater to his searching eyes.

_ Where is that wizard? _came his first coherent thought since the hermit’s frantic message—how long ago had it been, an hour?—reached him over Deimos. Other memories returned; the Questlords, vanishing into dust in a blink of an eye as the Infinity Bomb detonated; the Space Knights, falling to Tharon-Zul; and the Dwarves, to the robot goblins. _ I had failed them all. _It was only through the power of his faithful Hammer that he had survived the Infinity Bomb and the subsequent nuclear annihilation of the Hootsman—a man who had actually been a cyborg, which explained how he was able to reach Fife in so short a time—at all. And it was the Hammer that kept him from disintegrating into this crater.

_ Where am I? _was his next thought. 

The Hootsman’s explosion had wiped out Earth totally and it had taken Angus nearly six minutes, traveling as fast as the Hammer would allow him, to witness the aftereffects of this explosion. By then the shockwave had obliterated everything around, and would soon consume the Solar system. All that was left was a cosmic wormhole in space where the tracker pointed to Zargothrax’s escape.

By all logic he should be dead; not even the Hammer could have survived a star. Even if the impossible happened—and it was growing very likely this was indeed the case—there was no guarantee he was where the wizard had fled to. He could be anywhere in the multiverse!

His legs suddenly buckled and Angus collapsed. He released his Hammer and it mercifully fell off to the side, its head raising a cloud of debris where it struck. Thinking quickly, he bashed the symbol upon his chest with a shaking hand. There was a beep and it sputtered, a discordant melody of reluctant activation. Then, finally, light shone forth. Heaving, he leaned onto his side, propped aloft by his left elbow. The beam played across the Hammer, and a figure emerged.

“_Angus! _ ” the modulated voice of Ser Proletius echoed. “_Thank God you are alive, I had feared th—Angus! _”

The hologram raced over and slipped a hand underneath his body. Very quickly it became solid and Angus felt the Grand Master’s prodigious strength lift him up. 

“_Angus, what happened? _”

He coughed. “It… It was the wizard. He wa—was summoning a… a g—god! Kor-V-Virliath. Rala—Lathor told us. The Hoo—Hootsman, he… he went to Earth, is… is a _ cyborg _ I don’t—don’t know—”

“_Easy Angus, you’ve been through a lot. I am grateful for you deactivating me, _ ” Proletius commented. “_But please, don’t, not next time. I want to fight with my men. _”

“I… I had too! They were all… all dying. I ha—had to save you!”

“_Well, thank you. Now it seems I must return the favor. _”

With very little effort the hologram of solid light lifted up the prince, casually picked up the Hammer and slung it across his shoulder, and set off for the entrance of the ravine. As tireless as he was the motion from his steady gait made Angus slip in and out of consciousness. By the time he could open his eyes without wanting to puke, they had made it out of the crater his furious descent had created.

“_My God, what a terrible place this is _ .” Ser Proletius gently set Angus down and flung one his arms over his shoulders to support him. “ _I don’t suppose you had something to do with this? _”

“No… no, I don’t… I don’t think I did,” Angus said. 

A barren landscape greeted them. What few trees existed were gnarly, skeletal things of black charcoaled wood. Boulders reared out like pustules, grim and bare of any vegetation. The sky was a light crimson, as if the sun were in a permanent descent, and the few clouds visible were but ghosts and wisps of greyish steam.

Most terrible of all was the sun itself. Where the sun of Fife was a glowing white sphere of warmth and celestial power, this was a blackened orb rimmed by red just like an eclipse.

“_Do you think there’s civilization here? No, don’t answer that, I can see you are struggling with breathing. I’m not a doctor but even I can tell you have broken every bone in your body. _”

Proletius kept on talking to keep Angus in the here and now. He wanted to slip into blessed sleep but knew that if he succumbed to his wounds the Hammer would lose its celestial might. And not even Proletius could inherit it, as he was all but a robot in name.

The two intrepid heroes made their way across the land. Gradually, certain and familiar landmarks started to make themselves familiar. But it couldn’t be—the odds of that happening were so astronomical it was all but impossible. Yet it was plain. The gentle rise indicated mountainous hills, the many bare spots revealed the remains of what had been a mighty forest—and the ravine beside them that flowed with a brackish liquid resembled that of fair Tay.

“We… we are—

“—_Near Dunkeld, _” Proletius finished.

There came a flash of light to their distant left, hidden by a sloping rise. The thunderous roaring of sound washed over them a mere moment later. Both men threw themselves to the ground as debris rained down upon them. More explosions happened, accompanied by an undertone of marching (and what disturbingly sounded like synchronized growling).

Proletius crawled forward, being a hologram he was immune to most danger. He disappeared over the rise for a short time. Then he came scrambling back.

“_Angus! _ ” he hissed. “_You need to see this to believe it. _”

He assisted the wounded man up the rise. The noise of what sounded like battle grew louder and louder. Finally they crested the hill and laid down flat upon the exposed earth; there was no hiding of the Hammer’s soft glow or Proletius’ shimmering body.

Angus felt his mouth open in shock. “No, it can’t be!” he moaned out.

Before them stretched a terrible scene.

The fortress of Dunkeld loomed before them, tall and mighty, its great cathedral rising into the heavens. But rippling around its impressive walls were concerted explosions, each one weakening its structure more and more. A vast and dread army lay encamped before it all around, fell banners bearing a twisted sigil of evil—the mirror of the one upon Angus’ breastplate.

Siege engines of hell’s creation blasted the walls in concert with unholy fire projectiles, and manning them were the undead shambling bodies of Glaswegian peasants. Guarding them were twisted cybergenetic monstrosities, their commanders. Occasionally one would seize a decaying body and devour it in an instant. Marching on the city walls and ascending upon black ladders were sickening abominable soldiers made of everything inimical to life, armed with black blades and grey spears. 

The two men could see the defenders desperately holding them off—archers armed with glowing bows of light shooting arrows of what looked like fire, axemen swinging with scintillating blades of electricity, and spearmen blasting back undead soldiers with fierce pulses of light. But it was of little use, for the walls were collapsing in multiple places and the evil army was swarming in, the cybergenetic monsters leading the charge.

And wheeling high overhead upon fell winged beasts were ancient knights, sending down pulses of rotting starlight to cause havoc in the city below.

“We must help them!”

“_No, you can’t! You are injured, and even with your Hammer there’s too many of— _ ” There came a sputter and Proletius disappeared for an instant before returning. “_And your suit is losing power, _ ” he added with some grimness. “_I am of no help here. _”

“Then… then rest now, friend,” Angus told him. “I will ensure this city does not die in vain.”

Ser Proletius nodded. “_Good luck, prince of Fife. _”

Angus pressed his suit’s center again, and Ser Proletius vanished.

He watched as the great gates of Dunkeld collapsed in a burst of fire as a siege engine resembling one of the massive cannons his own forces used back on Mars destroyed it with one shot, the fortress’ shieldings failing at the last. As zombies swarmed in, most appearing to be unarmed except for their claws, Angus McFife the Thirteenth made his decision.

Wounded or not, he was still beholden to his people. And even if this were a strange and twisted realm, he would not stand by and let it die.

Gasping with effort, he stood up, proud and tall, and raised his Hammer of Glory. It pulsed and power washed over him. He felt strength returning to him. “_For the glory of Dundee! _” he shouted, and charged down to face the forces of evil.


	2. The Siege of Dunkeld (2)

The Hammer of Glory’s glow brightened and shone out with the force of a dying star, attracting the attention of the infernal army, and drawing more than one confused and terrified stare from Dunkeld’s falling battlements. Grasping the handle with both hands, his bones reknitting as cosmic infinity coursed through his veins, Angus charged at the enemy.

The first to meet him was the foul stench of the frontline soldiers who had somehow wheeled around long enough to return the charge. They looked like chunky animate blobs of decaying matter given a rough and unholy amalgamation of human and animal form, and most were unarmed save for uncharacteristic claws of steel protruding from their misshapen fists of putty. They were upon him in an instant, encircling the prince immediately.

That is, until he swung his mighty maul.

With a colossal boom nearly four dozen soldiers went flying into the rearmost ranks of their comrades. Another swing, another four dozen took flight. Accompanying each connected strike was a burst of light that burned out the decaying eyes of any demonic creature that looked at him.

A screech from high in the heavens alerted him; Angus looked up. Three winged hellbeasts came spiraling down to meet him, their clawed feet open and their riders pointing lances nearly five times his body’s length. He spun around, knelt down, and jammed the Hammer’s hilt into the ground with a powerful swing—there came another colossal boom, the undead fecal monsters pushed back by at least two dozen meters as a holy circle became inscribed upon the ground, and a half-sphere of protection arched into the sky, meeting at the top nearly twelve meters above him.

The first winged hellbeast was unable to avoid the shield and collided with it at irresistible speeds; its rider threw up a hand in useless defense. They both disintegrated into ash upon impact, and further burned to nothingness as it entered the Hammer’s aggressive glow. The others swerved and strafed it instead, their riders jabbing their lances into the holy dome, which predictably destroyed the weapons with a burst of fire shooting up their length. But their effort had been futile and they departed, their mounts shrieking. 

Angus rose, slowly twirling his maul as if it were a stave. Angling it beneath his elbow, the head facing rearwards, the prince dispelled the protective sphere with a wave of his hand while running at incredible speed for one who had struggled to walk just mere moments earlier.

A screech of unholy metal told him new foes approached. Five cybergenetic warriors sped over their evil smelling counterparts, wielding crystalline blades of blue fire growing out of their lower arms, and raced to intercept him. 

The prince halted, skidding as his feet dug into the ground and kicked up brown and grey ash, and turned, letting his Hammer swing freely. He released it and the Astral maul of might flew with deadly precision—with deadly impact it cleft through each undead soldier with a metallic _ crunch _ and returned back to its wielder’s hand after cutting down a few dozen lesser zombies as an afterthought.

“_Come forth, wizard! _ ” he shouted. “_Come face me in battle, Zargothrax, and prepare to meet your doom! _”

There was no answer except the chittering horde as it encircled him again. This time they kept their distance warily; five winged riders circled overhead, unsure of how to engage.

A groan of something unholy caught his attention and Angus turned. Over to his left, a path was being carved out of the undead horde—the Glaswegian zombies came shambling forward, pulling one of their mighty siege cannons. Angus quickly spared a glance for Dunkeld, and was horrified to see one of the cathedral’s mighty spires come crashing down. The invasion had already been concluded while he sparred out here. But there was no time for that now for a whine of increasing intensity grew more present on his hearing.

The prince hefted his Hammer and took a step forward. Big mistake—the siege cannon had finished spooling up its scintillating electrical arrays and a hundred gigawatt blast erupted forth to bathe the hero in death. Just in time he thought to slam the Hammer down again and summon his protective half-dome.

The explosion threw back the horde many hundreds of meters away, clearing the battlefield swiftly, and the shockwave even felled what was left of the ancient fortress’ walls.

Angus looked up and slowly stood from where he knelt. The ground was scorched black with no trace of flame; the stench of cooked meat hung heavy in the air along with an equally foul mixture of burnt rubber and ozone. The cannon was no more, there existed no trace of the machine, or of the half-dozen emplacements that brought down Dunkeld. The army was gone, all that was left were distant outriders that had been fortunate to be outside of the explosion’s radius, and the hundreds of fliers who circled high above. 

He grinned. This was just too easy. He lifted his Hammer again, preparing to call down lightning and blast the creatures from the sky—another mighty burst of energy caught him unawares, and the prince of Fife soared back.

The impact upon the ground broke his battle rage, instantly reminding him he was all but a cripple as the Hammer’s empowering aura left him. It lay from him a few meters away, smoking slightly from its burst. Angus shook his head, seeing stars, and tried to focus again. Was his Hammer’s glow starting to fade?

With a groan of mighty effort worth a thousand Space Knights’ valor the prince got to his feet again, ignoring the pain that threatened to kill him. He knew that his bones had been rebroken by whatever had hit him yet refused to let it hobble him. With effort he looked back at the field—and his handsome face twisted with fury.

“_Zargothrax! _” he choked out, a lung punctured.

Striding towards him with unholy majesty, flanked by twelve demonic knights wielding power lances with a vanguard of cybergenetic undead before, was Zargothrax. The wizard looked none the worse for wear following the Hootsman explosion; his spectacles were intact and his cloak showed no damage.

He was laughing. “Angus! Angus! You brave, foolish warrior, having followed me here to avenge the death of your brothers in arms, how noble and vain. Welcome to the kingdom of Fife!”

“What have you done to this land?!” Angus pointed at him.

Zargothrax chuckled. “I conquered it. Your brave Hootsman didn’t stop me as you thought, he only delayed my plans by a dozen years. I arrived back in time to where I had started ten centuries ago! I seize my chance and now… now _ I _ rule Caledonia!”

“Your dark dominion has corrupted Dundee!” Angus shouted, throwing his hand out to the side—the Hammer responded and flew back to his grip. “With a swing of my Hammer I’ll end this misery!”

So saying he charged Zargothrax and his undead retinue.

He reached them with little effort, the Hammer again giving him strength to resist the pain of his wounds. Yet something was wrong. The bodyguard of knights and monsters did not even try to come between him but rather stood aside, giving him easier access to the wizard.

Zargothrax smiled.

With a mighty scream, Angus swung his Hammer high and brought it down upon the sorcerer. It connected with his head. The prince expected to hear a meaty crunch, expected to see a burst of brain matter and blood spew forth and coat his Hammer’s holy head. Instead—he heard laughter.

He stumbled back, not believing his eyes—Zargothrax barely looked injured, laughing at him. The bodyguard joined in, their unearthly bones shaking. “What mystic enchantment have you spun!” he cried out. “My weapon has no effect—this fight is lost!” The Hammer’s glow was no lie, it was indeed growing dimmer.

“Pathetic and foolish mortal scum,” the wizard answered, a fireball growing in his hands. “In this dimension your Hammer has no power over me. Now, kneel before your Emperor, kneel—before—your—_ god _!” So saying he blasted Angus with the full force of his fiery magics. The prince of Fife flew high into the air, and vanished from the battlefield. The last thing he heard was the evil wizard’s mocking laughter echoing across the land, and then consciousness mercifully left him.

He neither felt nor heard anything since.


	3. The Deathlord of Dundee

Artificial muscles pulsed and vast expanses of leathery skin billowed—the cybergenetic dragon glided along harsh currents of air that wafted about the land. Atop its armored back rested Zargothrax, two soldiers accompanying him as bodyguard. For the first time since he emerged from the wormhole there was a smile of contentment about his features. He had long since dreaded this day, that by some mischance his mortal foe would emerge to face him. How fortunate had he been to find Angus all alone, wounded and wearied, and—delight and delights—his Hammer so enfeebled that his enchantments hardly shivered, let alone dented.

It was also amusing that he had arrived when Dunkeld had finally fallen. That fortress had long been a thorn in Zargothrax’s side, giving aid and soldiers to the stubborn resistances that kept cropping up. Truly, fate had indeed been on his side.

“Eyes up, mi’lord.”

Zargothrax stirred from his reverie. “Hmm?” he mumbled. “What is it, Ser Deathknight?”

“We are preparing for the landing—please keep hold.” The soldier’s voice was hollow, as if speaking through a drum. 

Without further delay the dragon wheeled about, angling into a long and slow descent. The black clouds— _ so gratuitous, _ thought Zargothrax—parted just as swiftly, and very soon came the crystal spires of Dundee.  Ringed about by seven concentric walls of glowing red stone, buttressed by black towers of obsidian, Dundee was impregnable. Smoky white towers rose into the atmosphere, dwarfed by an absolutely massive citadel piercing the heavens like a needle. It was perhaps even more grand than Dundee of 1992, all thanks to its lord.

Meeting them came five birds of prodigious size, the great eagles of Crail, a Deathknight mounted upon each. They turned to flank the dragon and began to escort it down. Far below, tracking their descent, loomed elemental cannons capable of such prodigious fire that any aerial assault would be repulsed.

As Zargothrax drew near, if he so desired he could glance downward to view the gleaming, winding streets of the city. Deliberately designed with the crystalline towers in mind as they grew, they were narrow and did not favor vehicular transport. Instead foot traffic was enormous, teeming crowds of humanity filling out the streets with no room to spare. As it was nearing midday these crowds would be migrating toward the forges that lay beneath the towers, building the vast war machine that ruled the land.

With sudden swift beats of its wings, the dragon pulled up and landed upon an outcropping of the citadel, some levels above the city proper yet with the topmost spires still visible. As its wings folded soldiers came to tend the beast while others assisted its riders’ dismount.

When it came Zargothrax’s turn to step down, something peculiar happened, one he was already tired of. Only one of the soldiers assisted him and when he was on the ground, the soldier asked, “Is there anything else you need,  _ mi’lady _ ?” The snideness in his tone was unmistakable, one Zargothrax forced himself to ignore.

“That is all, now off with you.”

“As you wish.”

_ Such insolence, _ came Zargothrax’s thoughts as he hurried away from the platform. While on the battlefield his soldiers were quick to obey and give proper respect, at least those that possessed some degree of independent thought and will, here at the castle their disrespect came freely. But that was the price one paid if one were to be a dark lord. Magics alone wouldn’t sustain an evil empire.

But for pity’s sake could they at least spare him some  _ respect?! _

Inside the castle the walls pulsed with muted light, beautiful in many colors and hues—so very out of place in a fortress of evil. Dundee had never truly capitulated to her king, resisting her own little ways. In all of his time here Zargothrax had not once figured out how to change a single crystal’s light into something more… evil. Yet in spite of this obstacle they made for excellent sources of power for his ongoing experiments.

In short time, taking several shortcuts he knew well, Zargothrax arrived at his laboratory. Inside lay his enormous library, full of all the books and scrolls looted from Roman monasteries and temples from far off Gaul. Like everywhere else in the citadel the walls curved and bent, following the crystal’s growth patterns, and the bookcases had to be made special for these walls. Ordinary rectangular shelves would not do. Fortunately tables did not always have to be set against the walls, and the one where he did most of his reading and experimenting just so happened to be conveniently located in the center of a particular cavernous part of the lab.

Throwing out a hand, Zargothrax caught a summoned scroll as he strolled up to his lab table. Unfurling it he began to puruse its ornate letterings. He had paid much gold and blood for parchments like these, for they were keystones in his research into the supernatural and other extrasensory phenomena. Now his interest was more mundane—the reappearance of Angus after twelve years, while amusing, was cause for concern. Zargothrax assumed he had been the only one to escape through the wormhole, his unlucky acolytes all consumed by his spell of self-protection, and of course that neutron explosion would make short work of both Imperial forces and his Stormstorm goblinoid allies. Now he was forced to revisit that assumption.

He was halfway through reading when a subtle jerk on his earlobe alerted him. Zargothrax straightened and turned, expecting to see another insolent soldier with a lecherous expression. To his relief, there was no one there.  _ Perhaps I imagined it _ .

But as he turned back to reading, the jerk came again, and this time with enough force to pull him off his feet.

“Noooo!” he screamed out as he lost all bodily locomotion and was dragged helplessly along by his mysterious assailant. He threw out his arms, hoping to snag a crystalline protrusion, and received for his efforts a shooting pain as one of his hands hit a spiky outcropping instead.  His swift flight through the castle drug him through countless stairs and halls, ascending ever upward. Once he passed through a commons area where Deathknights cleaned their armor—their jeers and laughter had turned his face beet red as he struggled in vain. Magic explosions and spells of grappling did nothing to arrest his speed. 

Every upwards he went until all he could see racing past him were mottled walls of crystal, glowing with brighter intensity to such an extent he felt his eyes would melt. Then, after being flung through a door, with equal suddenness he stopped. His arms windmilling Zargothrax fell backwards, head connecting with the floor with a loud  _ crack. _

_ Owww…  _ he groaned.  _ I’m going to feel that… _

“Report, Zargothrax.”

He lay there for a moment, recovering his breath. Thankfully he was not jerked to his feet like a marionette this time. He noted the walls in this chamber were darker, as befitting a place of evil most properly, except here he was terrified instead of pleased. Finally, legs aquiver, he stood up somewhat ungracefully and turned around.

Sitting on a throne that looked as if it had grown out of the floor rather than being placed there, a blue-white waterfall of seemingly impermeable water, was Krutarum, Deathlord of Dundee and representative of the Black Order of Inverness. He wore a crown of black ice, crystalline armor of pitch, and a cape of hardened sable; and beside him was the Sceptre of Fife, a tall crystal stave bearing the sigil of Fife rooted to the floor. 

And he was displeased.

Zargothrax gulped.

“My knights tell me you’ve successfully destroyed Dunkeld. Due congratulations are in order, wizard. Caledonia is now ours.” He leaned forward. “But I hear you met someone there.”

“Uhhh… yes—yes! I did, yes, I did meet someone there, a specter from my past, he was weak and very foolish to attack your army, my—my—my Lord,” Zargothrax said, stumbling over his words in haste. “I dealt with him swiftly as your knights no doubt have assured you.”

“They tell me you called him Angus.”

“Y—Y—Yes, th—that was his n—n—name.” Damn it why couldn’t he keep from stuttering?

Krutarum stood. It was made very apparent that he stood head and shoulders over the wizard, who positively shrank before him. He strode from his throne, reaching out casually to take the Sceptre. With a crack it snapped off.

“Then tell me,” Krutarum said, fiery blue eyes aglimmer, “why—” he reached Zargothrax, “—did you—” grabbed hold of his tunic, “—call yourself—” and lifted him up off his feet “—an emperor  _ and _ —” almost a foot into the air. —a god?”

“I—I did that to—to—to frighten—_frighten_ _him_, my Lord!”

“Have you forgotten what happens if you make that claim?”

“N—N—No… no my Lord, no, I have n—n—not—”

Krutarum brought him close, almost face to face. Zargothrax nearly recoiled as he felt the other’s breath—sweetly scented—wash over him. “Let me remind you what does happen. You attract the attention of the Hootsman. I know you have ignored the tales and legends, but the Black Order does not. He is quite willing to strike down insolent blasphemers.”

“ _ But the Hootsman died when he blew up! _ ”

“Strange things happen in the cosmic weft and weave of time.” Krutarum’s eyes bored deep into his own. “You would know this if you studied your lore. Instead all I find is you pottering about in that library of yours, looking for ways of transcending mortality. Do you think you can attempt the same here as in your home? Kor-Virliath is most unwelcome here. Summoning demonic gods attracts other gods, and they do, in fact, give a damn when dimensional fidelity is at stake.”

Zargothrax could only nod vigorously, jowls quivering with fear. There was sweat visibly beading on his forehead, not at all helped by the Deathlord’s measured breathing.

“Sadly, you do not give a damn. That is a terrible shame. And now your interdimensional travels have brought forth the consequences. Now listen here, worm. You will go and find this Angus. You will kill him, personally. Bring me his corpse and that hammer of his forthwith. Do I make myself clear?”

The wizard nodded again with the same intensity.

Krutarum released his hold, and Zargothrax collapsed in a heap before him. Coughing the wizard found it was a while before he could use his legs, and when he could bring himself to stand again the Deathlord had gone to sit back upon his throne.

“You have your orders. By all accounts you blasted him out of sight near Dunkeld. You will return there to find him, wounded or not. Oh,” and here he cocked his head slightly, a light smile playing across his white face, “you will need help. Angus is not someone to be underestimated, especially with a hammer. Most especially if it is  _ the _ Hammer of his home.”

A shard broke off from somewhere in the shadows above his throne and sped toward the wizard. Crying aloud, Zargothrax threw up his hands—with a  _ chunk  _ the shard embedded itself in the crystalline floor. 

“Take this knife. It will assist you in penetrating his Hammer’s spell of protection. Do not underestimate him. Or,” Krutarum gestured, “you may end up like them.”

The wizard peaked from behind his shielding arms. His eyes tracked the Deathlord’s gesture.

Floating some way off the floor, arms and legs akimbo as if falling upwards through space, hovered Prince Angus McFife the First and Princess Iona McDougall, forever encased inside twin sculptures of crystalline ice. The crystal was clear as water, revealing the frozen flood of black blood exploding forth from their chests and the white knots that accomplished the deed.

“You have been very useful to me and the Black Order, wizard,” came Krutarum’s unctuous voice. “But fail us one more time and you join them. Dreadlord, attend us.”

With the shattering of a thousand glaciers, another sculpture exploded in snowy majesty. There came a dull  _ thud-thud _ as the figure moved forward. Ser Proletius stepped into the light, eyes ablaze with the same blue fire as his dark master, and armored in like manner.

“You called, my Lord?” he inquired. Unlike the other Deathknights his voice sounded normal. Indeed, for one who had spent however many years in suspended animations and in living condition at that, he looked like he had spent only a day outside in a furious winter storm. 

“You are this wizard’s guardian for the duration of his task.”

“As you command, Lord Krutarum.”

Ser Proletius turned and strode past the wizard. As he did so, the light caught another aspect of him that had hiterforth been hidden—a gigantic greatsword of crystal, impossibly massive, impractical, and still very and potently deadly. 

Zargothrax gulped again. This time he hid it.

“I won’t fail you again, my Lord Krutarum, it shall be done.” He bent and retrieved the knife in one swift moment. “I return with Angus’ body.”

Genuflecting, bowing, kow-towing, he scampered out of the chamber in Proletius’ untiring wake.

Deathlord Krutarum laughed when the door closed with a snap. “Oh I believe you will.” For all of his faults, the wizard was very malleable. 

The same could not be said of his counterpart.


End file.
